


scenes from a highway at the edge of night

by Marcia Elena (marciaelena)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Community: spn_summergen, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 23:08:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16105700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marciaelena/pseuds/Marcia%20Elena
Summary: Birthdays are also anniversaries.





	scenes from a highway at the edge of night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tyrsibs (twiceshy)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twiceshy/gifts).



> Written for the 2018 Supernatural Summergen Fanworks Exchange, for tyrsibs and her prompt: _It was just a quiet stretch of highway_. It's a gen story but can be read as Sam/Dean if you're so inclined.

It's a quiet stretch of highway, the sky above wide open. The westering sun cloaks the scene below in gold and shadows, too late in softening the horrors of the day. 

There were woods once (only moments ago) on either side of the road, acres of leafy trees and wild underbrush, roots and vines encroaching upon the asphalt, life trying to reclaim the spaces that human progress carved out for itself. In the fall anyone passing through would be greeted by a riot of reds and ochers, the shedding foliage spreading out across the blacktop like confetti for miles on end, merrily announcing the coming of winter. 

It's spring now, and what should have been green and blossoming is a smoking landscape of ashes and charred husks. Dean's lying on the ground, shock evident on his bloodied face. "We won," he breathes.

"Yeah," Sam says. Something desperate is trying to claw its way out of his chest, up his throat, but he swallows it back down before it can escape. "We won."

*

"Happy birthday, Sam."

It's a year later. Exactly a year later.

Sam and Dean are standing side by side, faces raised toward the sky. It's the same highway, the same spot where the final battle for the world was fought. 

"I don't feel like celebrating," Sam says, his tone as hushed as the drawing evening. 

"Why not? I mean, okay, I know things tend to happen around your birthday, like, _bad_ things," Dean says, understating the last fifteen years. "But this time's different. The world's still here. _We_ 're still here."

Sam sighs. The first few stars are still faint up high, and his gaze lingers upon Venus, shimmering brightly despite the gibbous moon. "Did you know that Venus is one of only two planets in the solar system that rotates clockwise?"

"Nerd," Dean says, affection evident in his tone. It makes Sam ache. "Which one's the other one?"

"Uranus," Sam says.

"That your idea of a dirty joke?"

The sound that Sam makes is more of a huffing breath than laughter. "It wasn't, not until you made it one."

There are smudges of green showing where the woods burned. Grass, mostly, but also a few starflowers. The earth reflecting the sky. They're barely visible in the gathering darkness, but Sam knows they're there. The strange poignancy of it is somehow also a comfort.

A streak of light crosses their field of vision, ancient rock disintegrating into fire and dust. 

"Quick, Sammy, make a wish," Dean says.

Sam closes his eyes. 

*

They're there again, full circle, the two of them in the middle of the highway, the place as empty as it's ever been. A flush of vegetation covers the ground to the east and west of them, saplings peeking up among the ferns, green tendrils touching both sides of the road. 

"You're sure that this is where you wanna be today?" Dean's giving him that look, the mix of worry and puzzlement that never fails to make Sam's gut twist with regret. 

"I'm sure," Sam says. Behind his brother there's a slightly raised mound, a profusion of flowers growing upon it, as if the earth's keeping a secret, or guarding a treasure, or hiding something better left unseen. 

"Really pretty sure?" Dean asks, a smirk tugging at his lips now. 

The fine drizzle that starts falling is more mist than rain, blurring every detail around them. Dean's pale face stands out in the gray sunset, a lighthouse in a storm. 

Sam turns away from him, blinking hard. 

Dean's at his side in a split second. "Hey, what's with the long face? You're a year older, Sammy. Far as I'm concerned that's an awesome thing."

"Really pretty awesome?" Sam asks, smiling softly despite himself. 

"Yup," Dean says, grinning back at him. "Now c'mon, let's go grab some pie and beer and pizza."

"In that order?"

"Why not? We can always have more pie after the pizza." Dean pauses, eyeing him warily. "Please don't tell me you'd rather just have a salad instead."

A hollow feeling gapes inside Sam, and he knows it's not hunger. "I'd really love to have pie and more pie with you."

"Atta boy," Dean says, beaming at him again.

There's only warmth in Dean's voice, but standing there under the barely-rain, Sam shivers.

*

It's the same highway. It's always the same highway. Always the same spot.

Birds flitter between the nearby poplars, calling out to each other as they settle in their nests. A dirt path cuts through the reemerging woods, leading toward a cabin in the middle distance, amber light spilling from its windows. 

"Was that always there?" Dean asks. "That cabin. And these trees. I thought-" He frowns, looks down, and Sam watches his brother turn in a slow circle (clockwise like Venus) as he inspects the wide cracks in the asphalt, the weeds and wildflowers sprouting up.

Sam shrugs when Dean looks at him. "Things grow back, you know." 

"Sometimes things just die," Dean says. 

"I know," Sam says. Melancholy that has nothing and everything to do with his birthday weighs heavy inside him. "But sometimes, Dean. Sometimes they come back, too."

* 

Sam's older. Old enough for his birthdays to feel more like remembrance than celebration. Though, if he's honest, it's felt like that for a long, long time. Maybe always. 

More trees now shade the forest floor, not just poplars but maple and oak too; the highway's all but vanished under the victorious woods, but Sam imagines he can still feel the crumbling blacktop under his boots, sense memory invoking days and years spent on the road with Dean by his side.

"You gonna share, or do I gotta guess?" 

Sam realizes two things at once: he's smiling, and there are tears in his eyes. It's dark enough that Dean can only see his smile. 

"I was just thinking," Sam says.

Dean snorts. "Hello, Captain Obvious."

Sam looks at his brother. He stands on the once-road dreaming once-dreams as the night deepens around them, and he just looks. 

"What?" Dean asks, wiping his cheek and his nose with his hand. "Do I have something on my face?"

Sam shudders, unwanted images juxtaposing with the present. "Nah, just your face," he says.

"I've got my face on my face? You're actin' really weird today, little brother," Dean says. "Weirder than usual."

"Sorry," Sam says. He forces his gaze away from Dean and looks up at the stars. All that faraway light makes his eyes sting again. "Birthday blues, I guess."

"But it's a good one, though, right? We're still here, Sam." A pensive expression settles upon Dean's features, but he doesn't go on. 

"We're still here," Sam agrees. "We're still here."

*

Sundown, and the two of them strolling through the woods. Dean keeps glancing back as if searching for something, making Sam wonder what he's seeing, if he's hearing something that Sam can't.

"Dean," Sam says. "Something wrong?"

"It's Baby," Dean says. "I'm not comfortable with where we parked her. What if someone tries to mess with her?"

Sam halts his shuffling steps. "No one drives through here anymore."

Dean spares a couple more glances behind him before accepting Sam's reassurance. "Anyway," he says, picking up the thread of the conversation. "I don't know why you insisted on coming out here. Don't we see enough creepy-ass woods when we're huntin'?"

"It's a nice evening," Sam says. And it is. The sky is clear, the stars are out, the air is sweet.

"But these woods," Dean insists. 

_I know_ , Sam thinks. He doesn't say it out loud. "Just humor me, all right?" 

"Whatever," Dean says. "But only 'cause it's your birthday."

Sam knows that Dean doesn't understand, but he's grateful all the same. They stand in place together, so close, their shoulders almost touching.

 _These woods_ , Sam thinks. All the secrets that it keeps, all the treasures (all the horrors) crumbling and rotting underneath their feet.

It's the worst place on Earth for Sam. 

It's the only place where he wants to be.

* 

Another year, another birthday. Sam's never stopped counting. 

A shabby couch sits in the middle of the woods with Sam and Dean upon it. A highway ran through there, once. Once, there had been cars, and people, all of them thinking that the road would lead them somewhere. 

Crickets underscore the lateness of the hour. Yet time passes not in seconds or minutes, but in increments of shadow; the dimming daylight seeps into the ground, relaying messages that only worms and the roots of green things understand. 

Dusk turns into night, the way it always does. The Milky Way tips over across the heavens. A shooting star tumbles through the atmosphere, gravity calling it to its final rest.

"Make a wish, Sammy."

"I wish," Sam whispers. "I wish."

Dean turns on the couch, raising an eyebrow at him. "Something you wanna tell me?"

"Yeah," Sam says. "It's time." He turns on the couch too, facing his brother, their poses mirroring each other. Flowers shaped like stars sleep under the inky sky. 

"I'm waitin'," Dean says.

"Are you?" Sam asks. "Waiting, I mean. Are you?"

"The fuck are you talkin' about, Sam? You know I hate it when you're cryptic. Whatever you have to say, just say it."

And there's that desperate thing, the one Sam's kept inside him all these years. "It's my birthday."

Dean laughs. "Thank you, genius. Like I could forget that. Like I didn't say happy birthday to you already."

"Michael," Sam says.

The blend of mirth and annoyance that's so much _Dean_ is gone from his face in an instant. "What about Michael? We beat him. He's dead, and we're still here."

"Dean." The noise that comes out of Sam is somewhere between a sigh and a sob. "Where's _here_? Do you even know where we are? Do you know _when_ we are."

"We're-" Dean begins, but he doesn't finish. He looks at Sam in the dark, and Sam can read every thought and emotion clouding his brother's mind as they hold each other's gazes. There's real fear in Dean's voice when he speaks again. "What did you do, Sammy?"

" _I_ didn't do anything."

Dean swallows. "Me, then?"

Sam nods. He closes his eyes, because looking at Dean right now is too hard. He opens his eyes again, because not looking at his brother is even harder. "You died," he whispers.

"Huh?"

"You died, Dean. You died, and you- you were- god, your insides, Dean, there were- _pieces_ , splattered all over the road and then, and then-"

"And then what?" Dean urges when Sam stops talking.

"And then you stayed," Sam says. "Billie came to reap you and you refused to go, knowing full well what could happen to you if you stayed."

Silence floats in the space between them, fills the gaps between the trees. 

"You're sayin' I'm a ghost?"

"Yes," Sam says. He feels so damn tired.

"But obviously I'm fine," Dean says, defensive. "I feel fine. I mean, I don't feel dead. And I'm not- I'm not crazy. I haven't gone all vengeful spirit or anything. So we just gotta find a way to-"

"Bring you back?" Sam says. "You think I didn't try that? You think I didn't try _everything_? And you're not fine, Dean. You don't remember things. To you it's like every year is still the same year, it's like- like you reset, every year around sunset on my birthday 'cause that's when you died, and I've been playing along 'cause- 'cause it's you, Dean. 'Cause you're all I have."

Dean stands up. He looks at the thicket closest to him, and Sam knows he's seeing the light through the trees. "You live there," Dean says. "There's a- a cabin? You live there."

Sam stays seated. "I do, yeah. Bobby helped me build it. There was just no way I could abandon you here by yourself."

"And it's been just you here? No one ever comes to see you?" 

"Bobby," Sam says. "Until he didn't anymore. Charlie and Rowena, and then just Charlie. No one now for several years."

"What about Mom? What about Jack? Everyone else?"

"Gone," Sam says. "Before you, even."

"Sammy," Dean whispers. Still not looking at him. "How long-?"

Sam releases a slow, trembling breath. "Fifty-eight years."

Disbelief tinges Dean's features when he finally turns to look at Sam again. "But- that can't be. You still look the same. Not a day older than what I remember."

With a sigh (relief, weariness) Sam pulls a small pouch out of his jacket pocket and tosses it away. He watches his brother take in the bent and wrinkled old man that he's become as the glamour fades.

"Sammy," Dean whispers again. 

"I haven't been 'Sammy' for a really long time, Dean." 

"All this livin' and you haven't grown any wiser, huh? Always thinking you know better." Dean takes his place next to Sam on the couch again. "You're still my kid brother. Not even something as screwed up as this could change that."

And Sam laughs. He weeps first, loud and messy like the kid that Dean promises he still is. But after, he laughs, and (barring the impossible) that's the best birthday present he could have hoped for.

*

One more birthday. His last one.

Billie's there in the twilight, standing by. Sam hasn't owned a working clock for decades now, but he could swear it's the exact same time as when Dean breathed his last breath, down to the millisecond.

Dean's waiting too, sadness and wonder brimming in his eyes.

"I assume you won't be coming with me either," Billie says.

Sam closes the distance between him and his brother. His grip is strong and steady, his hand wrinkle-free as he grabs Dean's wrist. With his body left behind he feels so much lighter. 

"Where would you even take him?" Dean asks. "Sammy tells me that Heaven's been empty since- since Michael butchered all the angels."

There's infinite patience in Billie's tone, but there's a warning in it as well. "You had your chance, Dean. That's not for you to know."

"Then I guess you're right," Sam says. He tightens his hold on Dean's wrist. "I'm not going anywhere, not without him."

"Winchesters," Billie says. But she doesn't sound angry. She turns as if to go, stops. Looks at them over her shoulder. "You could have left," she says.

"Left?" They both say in unison.

"It was never this place that Dean was tied to," she tells them. Tells _Sam_. "It wasn't the parts of him that you couldn't scrape off the asphalt. It wasn't the violence of his death, not his bones decomposing in the ground where you buried him. It was you, Sam. It was always, only you." 

She leaves, then, just as she arrived--as if she'd always been there. As if she'd never come. 

Sam lets go of Dean's wrist but doesn't move away. They stand together in the darkening woods and they're both the secret, they're each the treasure, they're the ever after of the horror story that the trees will tell to the sky.

"You could have left," Dean whispers, repeating Billie's words. "This whole time, Sammy. You didn't have to stay here all alone."

" _We_ could've," Sam says. "But it doesn't matter, Dean. That ruined world out there- it wasn't my world anymore." He looks at his brother, the accumulated grief of years melting away until there's nothing but love. "And I was never alone."

When Dean pulls him into a tight embrace, Sam understands once and for all that the entirety of their world will always lie within these circles that they form around each other, this one perfect circuit that they are.

It's a long while before they step back.

"So what now?" Dean asks. 

The night breathes around them, vast and fathomless like the old, old thing that it is. Sam feels as if they're both a part of it now, in ways he never could have imagined when he was alive. "You told me once that- that we keep each other human. Remember?"

"Yeah, only I'm not sure if this still counts as human anymore, Sam."

Sam smiles, soft, untroubled. "But we're still _us_. We're still brothers."

Dean nods, emotion apparent in his eyes again. 

"So we keep each other sane, Dean. And we do what we've always done, like you told me then too. We make our own future." 

"Guess we don't have a choice," Dean says, his words echoing across the span of a lifetime. But he's smiling, too. 

*

It's a quiet patch of woods, the sky above wide open. The sun shines down on the treetops, rain clouds spend themselves feeding creeks and rivers, the moon waxes and wanes throughout the seasons. 

There was a highway here once. There was a dirt path, and a cabin. There were two brothers here, one long dead, one still living for a time, and together they walked under familiar stars until, one day, they walked away.

Somewhere, upon other roads, under many different skies, they walk together still. 

***


End file.
